Amesha's Diary
Chronicled here is the ledger of one of Quoraweh's founding leaders, Amesha Orlovsky. These writings are a collection of her thoughts and feelings starting from the beginning of her legendary adventure. All is written down, from her interactions with the various peoples of Quoraweh when it was called the Greenbelt, the enemies they encounter, and any special places they may have visited. Because of this well detailed journal, we have plenty of information to go on on the points of interest, historical events, flora, and fauna of the nation even before it's founding. Some of the pages have yet to be deciphered or compiled and collected, as such there are only fragments of the diary for now, however, that is subject to change as we uncover more of the Quoraweian leader's diary. '4709' 24, Kuthona I find it exceedingly difficult, even now to bring my pen upon the leaves of this book. I fear that I am not skilled, or rather, I deign, at recording the daily tarries and toils of my life, as those who would possess such a tome are wont to do. Alas, they mistake me for such a person to benefact this book upon me. For fear that I may offend, I have taken it upon myself to make an honest attempt in keeping a ledger of my affairs. However I must make this entry brief as night falls upon my birth date. '4710' 15, Abadius Perhaps the best entry that I can make is that of my identity. My name is Amesha of House Orlovski, borne on the 24th of Kuthona of the 4665th year. My home is simple and my family as well, I am blessed to have my mother guide and shelter me, yet I never knew my father. It is worthwhile to note my lineage diverges greatly from that of my human mother, though from my father’s I cannot say, for I am fey borne, a fact I am reminded of every day. I am not borne from an Orlovski womb and their blood does not course through my veins, if it is even blood at all. This I have known and accepted. Yet still I muse of my rightful name or whether I even be highborn or low. For now, I am Amesha of House Orlovski, borne on the 24th of Kuthona of the 4675th year. 21, Abadius I was brought up and cultured in the ways of my House, privy to higher studies and speech craft. For all my life I was told to uphold the values and virtues of Orlovski, as nobility and rank dictate of me. I am learned in the ways of diplomacy, of court, and of arcane studies, to augment my inherent magical talents, and placed under the tutelage of the best schools in Brevoy. I grew under an Orlovski banner, fed an Orlovski motto, and bred as an Orlovski envoy. They have given me the wardrobe of a nobleman, and so I shall play my part; if only to bring back some semblance of honor to our name. My mother thinks she hides it well, though I see her grow weary. We are disgraced, for reasons unknown. I had often wondered, of all Orlovski nobles, why we alone must live far removed from the seat of our House? All this solitude and for what? 17, Calistril Whispers run rampant among the masses of our home. An official conscript had arrived and writ upon its leaves, an opportunity. Low beneath the borders of our Kingdom, lie lands unfettered by faith or crown. Many are called to quell these lands and bind them to the banner of Brevoy with promise of gain and glory. I hear that other Kingdoms are wont to send their sellswords to these lost lands as well, so Brevoy must make haste and bolster their own numbers. I have decided to join the cause and claim the lands for my kingdom, with reasons far from what my station would make it seem. My gain is for my own, where I can erase the taint of our disgrace from the annals of our Home. I am not naïve to think that danger lingers far from this path. I know I shall be routed, mayhaps even slaughtered, from my course. Even this I think a burden light enough, if it meant my lineage would know peace from this stain. A wain leaves on the morrow. 18, Calistril Today I begin my adventure. My mother and our stewards saw me off well, their tears and hugs do me far more honor than bowed heads or idle pleasantries. I leave with a heavy heart, clinging to memoirs of the home I leave and endanger of never seeing again. I have taken little with me save some trinkets of my make and my mothers butter cake, both of which I very much delight in. I have also brought my savings, as endeavor and dreams do not fill a man's stomach or make soft the packed earth upon which he would bed. 2, Pharast The road to New Stetven is long. Another caravan is set to depart from New Stetven headed towards an enclosed trading post in the northern borders of what are now being called the Stolen Lands. Much of the travel has brought joy to my soul, a grateful respite from my earlier sorrow of leaving my family. Of particular joy was the scenic trail down Mt. Veshka, I do enjoy the heights so. Many others have joined us, all in hopes to claim their part in history. Sellswords hungry for gold mingle with knights grown fat on honor and glory. It is a wonder to bear audience to such a diverse group. I happened upon a woman today of Gnomish ancestry a rare interaction as there was no presence of fey borne back home. Her name was Gant, a scholar on her way to Rostland learned in the ways of the world, who was bemused at the sight of an Orlovski actively taking up arms for their Kingdom. Gant is a well spring of knowledge; a drink to slake my thirst. Of the sweeter fonts she gave me, one bitter draught stands out to mind, of a horrible fate wroth upon acedias gnomes; the Bleaching. A fear I never had was placed upon me today, of a fate worse than death, and those that suffer under its unforgiving embrace. If this adventure of mine fails in its endeavor, then at least it can prevent this bleaching from happening. 5, Pharast I sit and take my pen in hand and place it upon the leaves of this tome once again so soon after my last entry. Our caravan has been waylaid by fiends and brigands, it is but a fate so kind that would grant me the honor of being among strong and stoic folk. Were I stronger mayhaps I too would have been a boon in routing our adversaries. What little help I can offer I gave. These sellswords fight valiantly where I am not quick to jape in dangers face. One thought crosses my mind as I pen this, why do so many desert unto a life of crime? Where honest work would see these men die old in bed and not slaughtered like pigs upon the streets. One of the more zealous of sellswords harked unto them as baseborne; chattel since the day they came into this world drenched in common blood. All men alike, the grip of nobility escapes none, where knights think that every man borne outside a castle’s walls, less than human and knaves spit at their follies. Does ones blood really dictate ones lot in this world? What flaw do they hold there to be in these "baseborne" ? That they were birthed between different set of walls? This is a grand injustice that I would not feign to tolerate! I know naught of the world outside my high walls though I know that they do not mark it's boundaries, yet for all this, I believed the world to be fairer than this, much kinder than this. Mayhaps it is sin enough that I should stand before them in ignorance of the misdeeds wroth upon them. I bear the crest of nobility, and that crest that is their enemy. One of the brigands bore the crest of House Lebeda upon his breast, now he is but fodder for maggots underfoot... 11, Pharast My caravan arrived in New Stetven today under a cacophony of thunder and rain. I barely managed to say goodbye to Gant who bequeathed me with a parting gift before I was debased from the caravan with such haste and a ribald tongue. It rushed passed me on it’s way to Restov with my friend in tow. Nobles ought not expect chivalry in rain-sodden lands I suppose. I have sought shelter at a local manse connected to our Home, and though I detest my name just as much as I do other pretense of nobility or that dreadful Bleaching, it has its uses. I end the day like I have for the past few days, tired and aching, yearning for a long departed home. Gants jeweled brooch is quite fetching and will find a place in my jewelry collection as soon as this adventure is well behind me. In a few days the trade caravan headed for the Stolen Lands will arrive. 30, Pharast The weight of duty and nobility fetters one into servitude. Servitude to honor your blood and all the tenets that come with it. The peasantry know naught of this burden, were it a kinder fate if I too was born without the sanctuary of my name. I so long to be free of this, to cast aside these gossamer strings that bind me. Is such a world possible? Perhaps in these long lost lands…